


Blooming

by apliddell



Series: Your Many Tendencies [5]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Black John Watson, Black Sherlock Holmes, Case Fic, Dancing, F/F, Hurt and comfort, Institutional Racism, John's Birthday, Lesbian Johnlock, Sherlock's Violin, The Norwood Builder, anxious sherlock, kitten acquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-21 17:39:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17646965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apliddell/pseuds/apliddell
Summary: Sherlock throws herself into solving a case that seems already to have been solved.





	1. Chapter 1

John hums to herself as she prepares for our night out dancing. Her voice is a sweet buzz, the tune something I almost know or perhaps something I once knew. With one blunt fingertip, she smudges gold dust on and about each eyelid, which she follows with neat little swipes of sleek, black eyeliner. When she’s through with her eyes, she takes a tiny glass bottle, uncorks it, and dabs a drop of oily golden liquid on her pulse at her throat. Then she lifts her puffs of flame-coloured curls to anoint herself behind each perfect ear. She is memsmerically absorbed in these little tasks, and I am captivated. We catch eyes in the glass, and John grins at me. 

 

“Want some?” John bounces her eyebrows, holding up a shimmering fingertip. She is teasing; I know she’s teasing, but it feels rather like being offered some fae talisman. 

 

Still, though. Makeup, “A kiss instead?”

 

John’s grin broadens momentarily, then she purses her lips and blows me a kiss before returning to her toilette. Watch her try on different pairs of earrings and scuff my socked feet against the dense wool rug John’s placed under her bed, then shock myself by tapping the metal bed frame. Bounce a little in place to make the frame squeak. I like the squeak a bit too much, perhaps. I’m fairly sure that’s why John got the rug. 

 

“Well,” John steps back from her dressing table and puts on her glasses. “Not bad.” 

 

“You look magical,” things like that always spill out of me around John. No matter, she likes it. 

 

“Magical!” John grins, tosses her head, touches a hand to her hip. “Cos I’m star-spangled?”

 

Her outfit is a black velvet jumpsuit with small embroidered gold stars scattered over it. Looks rather like something I would wear. May need to borrow it some time, actually. Shake my head, “I do love the clothes, but it isn’t the clothes, it’s you. You  _ are  _ the star. A star among stars.” 

 

John laughs her delicious golden laugh and comes to throw an arm about my neck and sit on my lap. Nuzzle into her neck and breathe in the lilac sweetness of her perfume. 

 

“Come on, petal,” John pats my shoulder. “Let’s be off before I decide I’d rather have you all to myself.”

 

John does not stand up after she speaks, and I hug her round the waist, “Whether we’re here or at the Lady Day, you’ll have me all to yourself, John.” 

 

“Good, cos I’m really really greedy that way,” John kisses my nose, my cheek, my jaw, leans in as if she might just topple me back over her bed, painting the town red be damned. Can’t say I’d mind. But she draws back after a moment, beaming, “Ready, Sherlock?”

 

Lick my lips and nod, “Let’s go.”

 

…

 

Night out at the Lady Day is a smashing success! Four different women tried to buy John drinks, and she’d demur and introduce them to me with a sparkling smile. One of them said she was actually hoping to dance with us both, so we all three did at once and I taught her and John the Charleston. John of course was radiant, bright and hot and so magnetic, and I felt so sparkling beside her. I think she kept a hand on me the entire evening. We didn’t have much to drink, but the jazz band was wonderful, and we danced all night like I haven’t since I was nineteen and I’d go dancing with Vic. It was lovely. It was magical. I love John. 

 

Still is good to be in a cab on our way home together. Crawling through the fog, which is thick as custard and always lends things a haze of unreality. The night is velvety dark, the streetlights little splashes of gold like the stars on John’s clothes. Squeeze John’s knee and drum my fingers on her thigh because I’m still dancing inside. She puts her arm about me, pops off my derby and drops it onto her own head, then leans against my shoulder. The hat doesn’t fit well over her halo of golden curls and falls onto the seat beside her. 

 

John only smiles and fiddles with one of my locs that’s come down from its updo, “I’ve finally got you into a tuxedo. I should have got you a boutonniere as well, I think.” 

 

“It isn’t  _ my  _ birthday, John.” 

 

John laughs, kisses my hand, “Fussing over you can be my present to myself, though. I like to get you all flustered.” 

 

Squirm a little in my seat because she’s already flustering me, “You know such a lot of ways to do that, though, John.” 

 

She laughs a wicked little laugh, “Oh yes, so I do.” 

 

…

 

Sherlock had baked for me. Can’t think when she did it, but she presented me with a lovely little cake when we got in from our night out dancing and fetched a bottle of champagne out of the fridge. We tromped upstairs to enjoy it on the widow’s walk. 

 

“Oh!” squeaked Sherlock at the top of the stairs. “I’ve nearly forgotten your present!” 

 

“But you’ve already-” but she’d bustled into her bedroom and shut the door behind her before I could finish my sentence. 

 

I shrugged and went through to mine to climb out of the window and wait for her on the widow’s walk. 

 

Sherlock appeared at her window a moment later. Well her backside did. She was dragging something low to the ground and when she reached the window, she unlatched it and pushed it open, then heaved her prize out onto the widow’s walk ahead of her. It was a green ceramic container with a plucky little bush growing in it. 

 

I smiled, “What have we here?”

 

Sherlock followed the plant out onto the widow’s walk and reached for me before she answered, “It’s a lilac. I thought you might like to have one of your own since you’re so fond of them and so good at looking after things.” 

 

“Oh petal.”

 

Sherlock leaned over the plant and kissed me, “Do you like it?”

 

“I love it. You’re so good to me,” I hugged Sherlock, and she pulled me close to nestle against the warmth of her body. 

 

“I don’t think I’ve mentioned this to you before, but erm. When I get you flowers, before I get them, I check the floriography.”

 

“Check the what?”

 

“The floriography, John. The language of flowers,” Sherlock paused to laugh politely when I cupped my ear and leaned down as if the lilac might be whispering me secrets. “The  _ symbolism _ , John. The meaning of the flowers. So I can make sure it isn’t something horrid or something I don’t agree with.” 

 

“Ahhh, I see,” I nodded. “And what about lilacs, then?”

 

“Lilacs are new love,” Sherlock said almost solemnly. 

 

“New love. That’s lovely.” I kissed her hand, “Is it all that new?”

 

Sherlock nodded, “I think. It doesn’t exactly. It feels like. We’ve been together a long time. We’ve known each other a little over a year now, and er yeah it does sort of. Feel like we’ve been in love the whole time. I think probably we erm. Have. But. I think we could be in love a lot longer. A lot lot longer. So yeah, I’d call it. New.”

 

The seriousness of Sherlock’s sweet voice and sweet expression made me feel sort of wobbly inside. I hugged her, “I think you’re right. And even apart from being new between us, I think. I never really.”

 

Sherlock nodded, “Exactly. Nor have I.”

 

I cleared my throat, “That sounds like something I’d like to toast to, but I’ve left the champagne in my bedroom. Shall we go in and have some?”

 

“Yes, let’s have some. Absolutely.” 

 

…

 

“Shh, John,” Sherlock answered, her voice muffled in my armpit. “I’m reconstituting, and I need absolute focus.” 

 

“Absolute focus, hm?” I pinched her again, and she squeaked louder. 

 

“John!”

 

“You’re tickling me!” 

 

Sherlock squeezed me stubbornly, “Maybe if you didn’t cause such commotion, then innocent people would be able to recover from the afterglow in peace, with no pinching and no tickling.” 

 

That did soften my position. I stroked her back, “Does one recover from the afterglow? I thought it was something to be basked in.”

 

“Well, I need to recover my strength, but I am glowing extremely hard, and that makes it difficult. That thing you’re doing to my back, though. That helps. Keep it up, and I may someday be fully recovered.” 

 

I carried on petting, “Glad to be of service. Will I need to keep up the thing until you’re fully recovered?” 

 

“I don’t dare wonder what might happen if you stopped, John. Best keep it up for safety.” 

 

“Right you are,” I petted a little harder. 

 

Sherlock sighed and squeezed tighter, moving her face from armpit toward collarbone, which was much less ticklish, “‘’slovely, John.” 

 

I kissed the top of her head, “Are you sleeping, petal?”

 

“Mm, can I stay here?”

 

“I think you’d better, since I’m definitely not carrying you to your own bed, and you’re more like a soup in a headscarf than a solid human person at the moment.”

 

“Merciful,” Sherlock kissed my chest. “Generous.” She sat up suddenly, nearly catching me on the chin when she did, “I suppose I ought to go and brush my teeth and have a wash before I fall asleep. Wouldn’t want to be an unhygienic bed guest.”

 

I kissed her nose, “Hurry back.”

 

Sherlock bounded out of the bed and off into the bathroom. I shut my eyes and listened to her clatter about and the soft rush of the water running from the tap. 

 

Presently Sherlock shut off the tap and leaned into the bedroom, a bit of foam still stuck to her lip, “Erm John, could you come in here a moment?”

 

I got up from the bed and joined Sherlock in the bathroom, “Yes?”

 

“Do you hear something?” she murmured, inclining her head toward the other bathroom door on her side of the suite. 

 

We listened silently. Through the door, we could hear a sort of soft tapping and quick scrabbling. 

 

Sherlock turned to me, eyebrows raised, “Do you think it’s.” She pressed her lips together and shivered. 

 

I took her hand, “We’ll just have to. Look,” I opened the door a bit and leaned out into Sherlock’s bedroom. I could feel her leaning out above me. The room was dark, but in the shaft of light that fell across the floor, we could see a flash of movement and the shine of animal eyes. 

 

“Oh god, what is it?” Sherlock hissed with a shudder. “It’s goblin-shaped.”

 

I pulled my phone resolutely out of my dressing gown pocket and tapped the screen to bring up the torch, and in its broad beam, there was a very small cat, chasing, and tossing, and diving after a rolled pair of Sherlock’s posh cashmere socks. 

 

“She’ll put a run in them!” Sherlock said with a little stamp. “Goblin!”

 

I laughed, “Cheeky, aren’t we.” I pulled up the camera on my phone and took a photo. 

 

“We’ll be taking these photos to the police as evidence,” Sherlock called after the darting kitten. 

 

“Are you afraid of cats, Sherlock?”

 

“It’s very quick, and it’s sharp! My feelings are natural!” 

 

“She’s also very soft. And I imagine she purrs.”

 

“At this juncture, those points are entirely conjecture, John,” Sherlock slipped past me back toward my bedroom and rejoined me in the bathroom a moment later with my clothes hamper and its lid. 

 

I laughed, “You going to make the kitten do laundry?”

 

Sherlock set down the hamper and wrapped the trailing sash of my dressing gown round her waist, “I’m not convinced it is a kitten, but whatever it is, I’m going to catch it and put it back where it came from.” 

 

“Sherlock!” Sherlock looked round at me in surprise. “You can’t just put her back outside; she’ll freeze!”

 

“Or she’ll creep back to whatever sock-rending hell crevice she slunk out of. Where I’m sure her family misses her very much,” Sherlock added at my disapproving expression. 

 

“We can look for her family in the morning. It’s too cold and wet out for her out of doors right now.” I patted my hamper, “Go and put this back and pick up all the clothes you tipped onto the floor when you took it.” 

 

“Onto the chair actually,” Sherlock muttered as she swept away back to the bedroom. 

 

I took Sherlock’s dressing gown off the hook on the back of the door and wrapped up in it, then nudged open the door of Sherlock’s bedroom a little wider. I paused in the threshold to be sure I hadn’t spooked the kitten. I couldn’t see her anywhere, but I could hear her scrabbling about. I felt for the light switch next to the door and flicked on the light. 

 

It took me a moment to find the kitten. She was mostly hidden under Sherlock’s bed, with her hind legs and wildly whipping tail sticking out. 

 

I slipped into the room and shut Sherlock’s bedroom window. The kitten emerged from under the bed with Sherlock’s socks held in her teeth and regarded me suspiciously over the top over her trophy. 

 

“Hello sweetheart,” I said quietly. “I’m here to help.” I lowered myself slowly to the floor and sat cross-legged on the carpet, trying not to stare too much in her direction. I took the sash off Sherlock’s dressing gown and nonchalantly twirled it in circles. Little ones at first, then broader and broader ones. 

 

When I looked up, the kitten was sitting only about three feet from me, regarding me with clever yellow eyes. She was a tortoiseshell kitten, mainly black with with dustings of golden fur over her head and back as if she were dappled by a sunbeam, even in the half-shadow of Sherlock’s bedroom. I tossed the sash toward the kitten, then pulled it slowly back to myself, and she hurdled after it and leapt onto my knee. 

 

I bit my lip to avoid squawking in surprise and reached out to catch the kitten and bring her to my chest.  I wrapped her in the edge of the dressing gown, and she stopped squirming, but looked up at me discontentedly and gave a complaining sort of mew. 

 

I stroked the top of her grumpy little head, “Sherlock was right; you are very sharp.”

 

“In fairness,” Sherlock remarked from the doorway. “She looks quite soft as well.” 

 

I looked up at Sherlock, grinning, “She is. Want to come and stroke her?”

 

Sherlock sidled into the room and sank onto the floor next to me, “Not such a bad little goblin when you’re not destroying my possessions.” She stroked the kitten’s nose with one finger, “Filthy, though. Feel how gritty she is, John. She wants a bath.” 

 

“I think it’s a bit late for a kitten bath, though. Let’s just fix up something for her to sleep in, and we’ll sort out all that in the morning.” 

 

“Mmm,” Sherlock looked reluctant. 

 

“Yes?”

 

“Do you suppose she’s. Hungry?”

 

As it turned out, she was hungry. Sherlock scrambled an egg for her, and she gobbled it up, purring loudly. I made a sort of nest for her near the fireplace out of an old jumper and an empty stationery box. 

 

Halfway up the stairs back to my bedroom, Sherlock halted and tugged my sleeve, “Erm, John?”

 

I looked round to find the kitten two stairs behind us. I linked my arm through Sherlock’s, “Oh poor little darling! She’ll be lonely down here without us.” The kitten let out a helpfully plaintive mew and she and I both looked at Sherlock hopefully. 

 

Sherlock sighed, “Fine, let the Gob come along then.” 

 

I leaned down to scoop up the kitten and followed Sherlock back to my bedroom, “Mind you thank Mummy for letting you sleep in our bed tonight, Gobby.” 

 

“If anything, I’m Daddy and you’re Mummy,” Sherlock said over her shoulder. I giggled, and Sherlock seemed to think better of the remark, “But I’m not Daddy! Don’t even think about it! And we are all, including your unfortunate bedding having a very thorough wash tomorrow.”

 

I kissed the kitten’s goblin nose, and she purred loudly, “My thoughts exactly, little Gob.” 

 

…

  
  


In the morning, John generously offers to bathe the kitten while I pop next door to see if anyone is missing a goblin. Check with the neighbours on either side with no luck. 

 

When I come back in, John is in the kitchen making coffee and toast. She’s got my Eden apron tied on over her pyjamas, and upon closer inspection, I see that she’s got that cat curled up asleep in the front pocket, rather moist and draggled and wrapped in a worn pink hand towel. 

 

“I think a stray must have left her on our balcony while trying to move her,” John says in lieu of a greeting. 

 

Kiss her on the cheek anyway, “Mmm?”

 

“The Goblin, I mean,” John runs a fond finger along the top of the kitten’s sleeping head and looks soft. I resist jealousy with all my might. “Goblin is sort of a cute name for a little monster. Don’t you think?”

 

Stroke the Goblin’s head also and it purrs without waking, “ _ Our _ little monster, you mean? John, have you fallen in love?”

 

“At least I notice it this time,” John offers with a laugh. 

 

“Progress,” I agree and then go and put my coat back on to go out for cat food and supplies. 

 

...

 

“I think it’s likely I will never work again,” Sherlock announced dramatically one morning over her toast. “Probably I should shutter up my so-called consulting business and devote myself to teaching The Gob some manners, as that’s all I seem to be good for anymore.” She punctuated her speech by tilting the chair next to her and tipping an unperturbed Goblin onto the floor under the kitchen table. 

 

“There’s always the music,” I reminded her, serenely buttering a crumpet. 

 

“Ah yes, the music,” Sherlock got up from the table and washed her hands, then went over to her music nook to pick up her violin. 

 

“Hudson’ll have your head if you wake them,” I said. 

 

Sherlock only signed deeply and began to play some dreary classical music I sort of recognised, but she drew her bow off with a squawk and I started at the sound of frantic pounding below us as if someone were drumming on our front door with their fist. Poor Goblin puffed up to twice her natural size and went scrambling up the stairs to the bedrooms. 

 

We heard Hudson’s door thrown open and then the outer door. 

 

“Got any idea what fucking time it is?!” came Hudson’s voice from below, then a muffled yelp of surprise and heavy running footsteps on the stairs. A moment later, an obviously terrified young Black man burst into our flat and looked round with wide, frightened eyes. He was dressed in a handsome, expensive-looking suit and polished black shoes, but he had an air of dishevelment about him because of the awkward way he clutched his briefcase and the rumpled newspaper over his arm. 

 

“Oh thank god! You’re Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?” said the man, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded. “You’ve gotta help me! They’re coming to take me away!”

 

“Who is?” Sherlock asked in her calm, even voice. 

 

“The police! They’re coming to arrest me! I’m John-Hector McFarlane!” he half-shouted as if that would explain everything, then swayed on the spot. 

 

“Oooh, he’s going to faint,” I sprang forward and walked John-Hector McFarlane to a chair. 

 

He sat obediently and put his head between his knees when I told him to. Sherlock pulled up a chair in front of him and waited a moment before speaking, “You said your name just now as if I should know it, but apart from the fact that you’re an unmarried asthmatic solicitor, I know absolutely nothing about you.” 

 

“You really don’t know who I am?” John-Hector raised his head slowly, looking a little steadier and held out the newspaper, “Apart from all those things, I’m the unluckiest man in London. I feel as if everyone in the world must be talking about me.” The front page was emblazoned with a handsome, smiling picture of his face with the word WANTED stamped across it. “They think I murdered Jonas Oldacre! It’ll break my mother’s heart; it’ll break her heart. But I had nothing to do with it! I didn’t do it!” He looked up at Sherlock with a pleading expression, “Will you help me, Ms Holmes? Will you clear my name? If they come to arrest me before I’ve finished my story, you’ll make them let me tell you what happened? They’ve been following me since London Bridge station, the police have. I think they’re only waiting on a warrant to arrest me, but you’ve gotta make them let me tell you what happened! I didn’t kill him!”

 

“Of course I’ll help you,” said Sherlock gently. She took the paper from him, smoothed it, and read aloud, 

“‘ _ Last night or early this morning, an incident occurred at Upper Norwood which points to a serious crime. There was a fire in a small timber yard attached to the residence of well-to-do retired builder Mr Jonas Oldacre, 66, and the fire brigade arrived on the scene too late to do anything beyond prevent the spread of the fire to the house itself. Up to this point, the fire seemed to be an ordinary misfortune, but evidence suggests it was the means of concealing something much grimmer. _

 

_ “‘Tragically, upon further examination of the property, it was found that Mr Oldacre had not slept in his bed that night. The master bedroom was in disarray, apparently the site of a mortal struggle, as there were marks on the ground outside to show that a heavy object had been dragged from the French doors of the ground-level bedroom to the timber yard in back. A wall-safe located in the bedroom was standing open and the papers, consisting apparently of some valuable deeds, had evidently been tampered with. It is further asserted that charred remains were found among the ashes of the fire in the timber yard. _

 

_ “‘Slight traces of blood were found in the room and upon a heavy oak-handled umbrella engraved with the initials J-HM. Mr Oldacre is known to have received a visitor at his home late that evening, and the aforementioned umbrella has been identified as the property of that person, a Mr John-Hector McFarlane, 28. McFarlane is a junior partner of a London legal firm Graham and McFarlane. The police believe they have evidence in their possession of motivation for what promises to be a very serious crime. _

 

_ “At time of going to press, it is rumoured that a warrant has been issued for McFarlane’s arrest and even that the suspect has actually been taken into police custody-’” _

 

Here Sherlock was obliged to stop as we all jumped at the sound of the front door banging open and shut and footsteps on the stairs. Our flat door swung open again and a slight, attractive but rather ferretty looking blonde woman walked in. Behind her in the passage, I could see two large uniformed officers. 

 

The woman zeroed in on McFarlane at once, “John-Hector McFarlane?” 

 

McFarlane rose, looking sick. The blonde woman strode forward pulling a badge out of her jacket, “I’m Detective Inspector Lestrade with the Metropolitan Police, and I’m arresting you for the willful murder of Jonas Oldacre of Upper Norwood.” 

 

“Not so fast,” Sherlock said. “Mr McFarlane has just engaged me to investigate his case, and I was on the point of taking his statement so that I can begin my inquiry.” 

 

“Your inquiry?” DI Lestrade rather sneered. “And who might you be?”

 

“My name is Sherlock Holmes. I’m a consult-”

 

“Oh my god, you are!” DI Lestrade’s expression shifted at once, and she half raised her hand as if she might like to shake Sherlock’s, if it were quite professional. She smiled instead, “I love your website! Your work on the case of the beryl coro-”

 

“Thank you,” Sherlock interrupted. “I was hoping to interview my client before you arrest him.” 

 

“Well,” DI Lestrade glanced toward the PCs waiting in the passage. “It’s not usual. But I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm.” She looked at McFarlane, “You can give your statement to Ms. Holmes, if you like, McFarlane. But anything you say will be taken into evidence and may be used against you.” 

 

McFarlane nodded eagerly, “Good! I’d like nothing better than for my statement to be taken into evidence. I could go to jail happily, if I knew Sherlock Holmes was on the outside for me sorting it out.”

 

“Perhaps not happily,” Sherlock said with a little twitch of the mouth.

 

“I’ll give you half an hour,” said Lestrade, beckoning in her PCs. 

 

“Thank you, DI Lestrade,” said Sherlock. “Sit down, Mr McFarlane. John perhaps you could get Mr McFarlane a glass of water? I’m afraid he still isn’t quite well.” Sherlock brought McFarlane the basket chair and took her own chair, leaving Lestrade and her two constables to shift for themselves. They dragged in chairs from the kitchen, and Lestrade set hers near Sherlock’s and whipped out a pen and pad. 

 

I joined them a moment later, and after McFarlane had refreshed himself with a sip of water, Sherlock turned to him and took out her own pencil and pad, “Now. Tell me slowly and clearly everything that happened.”

 

McFarlane leaned back in the chair almost calmly and looked up at the ceiling for a bit before he began, “I’m a junior partner at my uncle’s legal firm and doing quite well for myself if I do say so, considering I’ve not been practicing long. I’d my own place, but I’ve moved back in with my mother in Blackheath. She’s been having a rough go of it, since my dad passed a few months ago. Three months ago,” McFarlane paused and sipped his water again, and Sherlock patted the arm of his chair encouragingly. 

 

“I’d never even met Mr Oldacre before yesterday, though I’d heard his name. He was acquainted with my parents well before I was born, but not much after. It was a complete surprise to me yesterday when he walked into my office, spread some loose leaves of paper all covered in scribbling over my desk and told me it was his will and he wanted me to make it up into proper legal shape, and he’d sit and wait while I did.”

 

“Could you produce those scribblings, Mr McFarlane?” Sherlock asked, writing busily. 

 

“Yes, I have them here in my briefcase,” McFarlane bent to open his briefcase and handed over a sheaf of rather rumpled and creased papers, frilled along the top to show where they’d been torn from a notebook. 

 

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, “May I keep these for 24 hours?”

 

Lestrade shrugged up her shoulders, “If it would amuse you.” 

 

“Thank you, DI Lestrade. Mr McFarlane, please continue.” 

 

McFarlane sipped again, “Well I started to type it all up, and I was quite shocked to find he was leaving everything, with a few minor reservations, to me, who’d never laid eyes on him before. I asked him what he meant by it, and he said he’d nearly married my mother before she met my father. And he’d heard such good things of me over the years, and since he never married nor had any kids and my own father wasn’t around to set me up in life, and I might have been his son, had things gone differently, he thought there was no one better to leave it all to. It struck me as a little strange that he thought I wanted setting up in life, since he was standing in my office, asking for my professional services. But he was offering me a fortune. All I could do was thank him and finish writing up his will. 

 

“Once I’d finished the will and it was signed and witness by my clerk, Mr Oldacre told me there were a number of documents, deeds and mortgages and such, he’d like me to see and would I be able to visit him at his house that evening to go over everything. I tried to tell him he could send me copies in the post or just. Yknow scan and email. But he couldn’t or wouldn’t, and he pressed me to come round. And since he’d just left me everything he had in the world, I didn’t really feel right refusing,” McFarlane shook his head ruefully. 

 

“He also made me promise not to mention it to my mother til it was all officially settled, because he wanted it to be a lovely surprise for her. And since, like I said, I was feeling quite indebted to him, I said I wouldn’t. Mr Oldacre went off, and I texted my mum to let her know I’d business to attend to that night and might be quite late. She worries, since Dad passed.” 

 

Sherlock nodded, still writing, “Of course. Go on.” 

 

“So I took the train to Norwood, and I arrived late in the evening, around half past nine-”

 

“Who let you in?” Sherlock interrupted. 

 

“Er a woman. Middle aged woman. She never introduced herself. I think she was a lodger.”

 

“And she was the one who named you to the police, I suppose,” said Sherlock. 

 

“That’s right, I think she was.”

 

“Interesting. Go on.” 

 

“She showed me into the kitchen, and there was some sandwiches and tea laid out. Mr Oldacre came in and we had dinner together, then he took me back to his bedroom. There was a wall safe installed, which was standing open. He took out a load of packets which were all sealed up with wax and had to be unsealed so that we could go over them together and then resealed with fresh wax when we’d finished with them. He was a bit obsessive about the papers being just so; it took ages to go through them all. It must have nearly midnight when we’d finished. 

 

“Mr Oldacre showed me out of the house through his French windows, saying since it was late, his flatmate would be asleep and he didn’t want to disturb her. I remember I couldn’t find my umbrella, but Mr Oldacre told me we’d definitely be seeing more of each other, and he’d look after it until I visited him again. Since it was so late, I just got a hotel room nearby and started in to work in the morning from there. And that was all I knew of this until I saw this morning’s paper.”

 

“Well!” said Lestrade, shutting her notebook. “Anything else, Ms. Holmes? Any other questions?”

 

“Not at the moment, til after I’ve been to Blackheath.”

 

“Blackheath?” said Lestrade. “You mean Norbury, the scene of the crime.”

 

Sherlock smiled, “Oh yes, I probably did mean Norbury, didn’t I.” 

 

Lestrade stood and beckoned her constables, “Well if you wouldn’t mind showing McFarlane to the black and white, I’ll be with you all in a moment.” 

 

McFarlane was escorted from the room and when he’d gone, Lestrade turned back to Sherlock, “I don’t see that there’s all very much for you to do, do you? Seems a fairly straightforward situation to me.”

 

Sherlock raised her eyebrows, “Does it? There’s loads about it that I can’t account for at all. Starting with the will.” Sherlock held out the bits of paper that McFarlane had given her. “What do you make of this?”

 

Lestrade frowned, “Make of it?”

 

I stood up to have a look as well, “What’s with the writing? The first bit is all right, then it sort of goes to hell. And then there’s a bit toward the middle that’s okay as well, and then it’s horrible again. And in places, I can’t make it out at all. Why would the same man have three different handwritings?”

 

Sherlock shot me a pleased look, “I think he must have made it out on the train in his way to visit Mr McFarlane. The good writing represents stations and the bad represents movement. And the very bad is passing over the points.” She looked at Lestrade meaningly. 

 

Lestrade shrugged, “So he wrote it on the train. Who cares?”

 

Sherlock went a little stiff at that, “So it was his will. One  _ tends  _ to think of such things as important? Why would he write up such an important document so haphazardly? Don’t you think it suggests he thought it would be of no practical importance? Don’t you see that two remarkable things have occurred in the space of twenty-four hours? You’re making the mistake of fixing only on the latter, since that one was the actual crime. I think in order to really understand the crime, we’ll have to understand the will first.”

 

Lestrade drew herself up, though she still only came up to about Sherlock’s chin, “Right, well there’s no need to lecture me about working a case properly,  _ Ms _ Holmes. I know what I’m doing. I’m a  _ professional _ , after all.” 

 

“I am trying to help you avoid a serious injustice,” Sherlock said quietly. 

 

“Well, you’re forgetting that I’m not your client; McFarlane is. I didn’t ask for your help.” 

 

Sherlock scowled, “But  _ you  _ have a duty to him as well! He’s just as much a citizen deserving of justice and protection as Oldacre is!”

 

Lestrade laughed incredulously, “He’s a brutal murderer!”

 

“You don’t know that!”

 

Lestrade held up her hands and took a step back, “I think we’re getting distracted here. Whether McFarlane has committed any crimes is for a jury to decide, but I know what I think. Good luck in your investigation. I do hope it won’t be a waste of your time.” 

 

“It won’t,” said Sherlock coldly. 

 

“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon, Ms Holmes. I’ll show myself out,” Lestrade made for the front door, and when she reached it, she muttered something that sounded like,  _ Never meet your heroes.  _ A hot little flare of anger flashed over me, and I reached for Sherlock’s hand and squeezed it, as we listened to Lestrade descend the stairs. 

 

Sherlock ground her jaw, “Of all the smug, complacent, incurious! Christ!” 

 

“Infuriating,” I agreed. 

 

Sherlock looked at me, “You see it, don’t you? This is negligent racism, pure and simple! None of Lestrade’s notion of the crime makes any goddamn sense! She thinks our client beat an old man to death in cold blood with a fucking umbrella! Think about the energy and vigour that would take! An umbrella with his initials engraved in the handle to boot, as if he only did it specifically to tie himself to the crime! Dragged a corpse through the garden and set fire to it in a shed? Why should he set fire to it? What good does that do? It wouldn’t have concealed Oldacre’s death. And he burns the body to hide evidence, but can’t be bothered to take away the monogrammed murder weapon? I can’t get over the fire.  And avoided the attention of the lodger and any of the neighbours? It would have taken time; it would have been loud! How many times do you think you’d have to hit someone with your umbrella before you killed them!

 

“Why should Oldacre leave all his property to a man he’d never seen before? Why would any person in possession of his faculties kill for an inheritance he’s literally just found out about that day? Why would he do it on a night he’s known to be in the house and positively identified by the other person living there? Oldacre’s got property to leave behind but he’s also got to keep a lodger? John-Hector doesn’t even need the money! He’s a successful solicitor. Did you see his Versace suit and his Prada lace-ups?” 

 

“I didn’t notice his shoes were Prada,” I admitted. 

 

“Shoes are important, John!” Sherlock paced up and down the room fretfully for a few moments, then collected herself. “Right, I’m. I’m going to Blackheath. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

 

“Shall I-”

 

“Thanks, but no. Weather’s iffy, and I saw you rubbing your shoulder when you thought I wasn’t looking.” Sherlock smiled at me, “Finish your breakfast, put some heat on that shoulder, and keep the Goblin off my socks. I’ll be back soon.” Sherlock turned and bounded up the stairs before I could answer. She was back down presently, dressed in a dark suit with her hair pulled back into a simple knot, which eased my worries for her going alone. Probably interviewing witnesses and not going undercover or anything rough or dangerous. Sherlock didn’t make time to let me in on her plans, though. She only kissed me goodbye and was gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock came in near dinner time, looking morose. She flung her coat at the hook and took no notice when it fell onto the floor. I followed her into the kitchen and watched her put her head under the tap and drink from it noisily. 

 

“Want a glass?” I offered. 

 

Sherlock shook her head, “‘M fine.”

 

“Something to eat?”

 

Sherlock shook her head again, “Eating will only make me sleepy and complacent.”

 

I swallowed a sigh, “Nothing wrong with sleep.” Sherlock only leaned against the worktop and did not answer. “How was Blackheath?”

 

Sherlock shrugged, “Clarifying. Perhaps not exactly helpful.” 

 

“Oh?”

 

“I talked to Mrs McFarlane. Mum, not wife. Elderly, respectable type. Clearly deeply in mourning for her late husband. She remembered Oldacre well.” Sherlock crossed to the kitchen table, scooped the Goblin out of her seat and cradled her absentmindedly in the crook of her arm and sank into her chair. “She dated him for a while some thirty years ago, but she caught him kicking a dog and broke it off with him at once. She said he has an appetite for cruelty and a vindictive streak. She said she and her family want nothing to do with him or his money or his property.”

 

“Good for her!”

 

“Yeah, but Lestrade and them’ll only see it as strengthening their case against her son. If John-Hector had heard her talk about Oldacre like that at any point, it could predispose him to think Oldacre deserves whatever he’s got coming to him.” 

 

“Oh.” I paused, “I hadn’t thought of it that way. Did you go to Norwood after you spoke to Mrs McFarlane?”

 

Sherlock sighed, “Yep.”

 

“Not helpful?”

 

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock shrugged. “Interviewed the lodger. Lexington is her name. Christine Lexington. She definitely knows more than she’s saying. Very tight lipped, though. Very cagey. I searched the house and went through Oldacre’s papers.”

 

“And?”

 

“Well it looks like either way, John-Hector’s not exactly heir to a fortune. Oldacre was not even close to well off. The property he supposedly left to John-Hector was mortgaged and he was so underwater on it, it’s sure to be seized by his creditors. Our client wouldn’t have been in for anything but a headache.”

 

“Well, that’s something, isn’t it? Progress?” 

 

“It does seem to be something. It all stinks, but I can’t say what of. And going through the papers. There seemed to be documents missing. Nothing seems exactly right; I can’t make any of it fit together.”

 

I considered that, “Could the documents be stolen?”

 

“Stolen by whom, then? And to what end? No reason for John-Hector to steal anything, since him inheriting is dependent on all the deeds and things being found.”

 

“Right! Evidence for our side, then! We’re getting there!”

 

Sherlock shrugged miserably and nuzzled her face into the Goblin’s gently rising and falling fuzzy belly, “I don’t know that we’re getting anywhere. It’s still all. Dark to me. And they--well Lestrade I mean--really wants John-Hector to be guilty.” Sherlock scowled in disgust, “The Met cares more about the case being over than solved. And Lestrade wants to look like the big hero in a sensational murder. And. They know people will think anything of us.  _ They’ll _ think anything of us. I left my card with Lestrade when I saw her at Norwood, and asked her to ring me if there were any fresh developments, but.” 

 

I rubbed Sherlock’s shoulder, and she bumped her head against my arm and turned her face into the crook of my elbow too late for me to miss the tear that fell. I rubbed a little harder, “You’ve done everything you can, petal.” 

 

“That’s the problem! If I. If I could think of something more. I might still be able to save him. It can’t be how Lestrade says it is. It just can’t be; the whole story’s absurd.” 

 

“Have something to eat and get some rest. You might think of something in the morning.” 

 

Sherlock shook her head, “I’m not hungry. I need to think.”

 

“You’ll think better if you eat. Let me fix you something.” 

 

“Maybe later,” Sherlock got up from the table, still holding the Goblin and wandered out of the kitchen. I thought she’d make for her violin, but I heard her on the stairs and then the gentle click of her bedroom door shutting. 

 

…

 

I knocked on Sherlock’s door with a plate of beans on toast and a cup of tea some time later that evening, but when I got no answer back, I carried the lot into my bedroom and looked out of my window onto the widow’s walk.

 

Sherlock was stood on the widow’s walk smoking a cigarette, and she started when she saw me, dropped the cigarette, and mashed it out under the heel of her slipper. 

 

I opened the window and leaned out, “I didn’t come out to scold you, petal.”

 

She laughed uneasily, “Are you sure? I deserve it.”

 

I bit my lip, “I’m here to offer you dinner, not to punish you for things that aren’t your fault or lecture you about smoking a cigarette when you’re upset.”

 

“Five cigarettes,” Sherlock muttered. 

 

“Nevertheless. I’m not upset with you for doing your best, and neither should you be upset with yourself.”

 

Sherlock balled fists and leaned back to thud hard against the wall behind her, “My feelings on the subject don’t matter! My client’s life matters, John! This isn’t about me!” 

 

I turned carefully to pick up the cup of tea from the windowsill and stepped out onto the widow’s walk with it, “Your feelings matter when they keep you from eating and sleeping and have you generally using your body for a punching bag.” 

 

Sherlock took the tea and sipped it and let me stroke her back, “I’m sorry, John. I don’t mean to worry you.” 

 

I kissed her cheek, “A little toast? A mouthful?” 

 

Sherlock nodded, “Okay.” 

 

…

 

Sherlock slept fitfully that night. Well I assume she did. After an hour’s tossing and turning beside me, she got up and went into her own bedroom. I carried the Gob in after her and made Sherlock promise to wake me if she needed me. I fell asleep listening through the wall to her talking quietly to the Goblin. 

 

When I descended into the sitting room in the morning, Sherlock was already there. She lay stretched out on the sofa with her violin in her arms. Her eyes were shut, and I’d have thought she was asleep, but for her fingers plucking the strings. 

 

Sherlock sat up as I entered, pulled her phone out of her dressing gown pocket and thrust it toward me, “Read this.”

 

I took the phone when I reached her and read aloud a text from a number I didn’t recognise, “‘Important fresh evidence uncovered today. McFarlane’s guilt conclusively established. Advise you to abandon case immediately.’ That sounds serious.”

 

“Lestrade fucking rubbing it in,” Sherlock thumped back against the sofa a little too hard. “Fresh evidence cuts both ways, though. May as well go and have a look. I’m not giving up yet.” 

 

“We can have some breakfast,” I said gently, sitting down beside her and slipping a pillow under her head. “And then we can go to Norwood and see what’s what.” 

 

Sherlock leaned against me at once, curled her arm through mine, “You’ll come with me?”

 

“Of course I will.” 

 

Sherlock was silent for a bit and when she spoke again, her voice was soft, almost dreamy, “I think. I’ll need you today. Your company and your moral support.” 

 

I kissed her hair, “Of course petal. Anything you need. Any time.”

 

…

  
  


“How’s your inquiry going, Ms Holmes?” Lestrade asked us sunnily when she met us at the police tape outside Oldacre’s home in Norwood. 

 

“I’ve been unable to form any conclusions so far,” Sherlock answered stiffly. 

 

Lestrade clucked in false sympathy, “You can share mine, if you like! There’s enough correctness to go around, and I’m sure you’ll agree with me, once you’ve seen the new evidence. We can’t all have it our own way every time, now can we?”

 

Sherlock frowned, “I’d be happy to examine this new evidence whenever you’re ready, DI Lestrade.”

 

“Come on, then.”

 

We followed Lestrade into the house, and she showed us to a dim nook off the entryway that had evidently housed coats and hats, “There now!” Lestrade indicated a red-brown mark on the wall just under a row of coat hooks, and held out a little card to Sherlock, who took it. “What do you call that?”

 

Sherlock glanced at me, then took out her magnifying glass and inspected the mark closely, “It is a thumb mark.” 

 

Lestrade smiled, “And I suppose you’re aware that no two thumbprints are alike?”

 

Sherlock pressed her lips together, looking between the card and the wall with her magnifying glass, “I have heard something of the kind, yes.” 

 

“If you’ll compare the print on the wall with the one on the card, which we obtained from McFarlane just this morning, I think you’ll find that they are identical.” 

 

Sherlock raised her head and to my astonishment, she was smiling, “So they are.”

 

Lestrade was rather taken aback by her expression and came over a bit more serious, “Well even you’ve got to agree that McFarlane’s thumbprint in blood in the victim’s house is conclusive, Ms Holmes.”

 

Sherlock grinned, “Certainly it is. How lucky for your investigation that McFarlane should have chanced to leave a thumbmark. Pressing his right thumb flush against the wall while retrieving his coat is such a natural gesture, too if you think about it. Well done, Lestrade. Was it you who made the discovery?”

 

Lestrade frowned, “Er. The lodger, did actually. Miss Lexington. She pointed it out to one of the PCs.” 

 

Sherlock’s eyes positively sparkled, “Did she? She has been instrumental in this entire affair, hasn’t she. And why shouldn’t she. It must be just terrifying to have such barbarism taking place under your own roof. Changing the subject entirely, I don’t suppose you’d object to me refreshing myself with a little walk upstairs?”

 

Lestrade shrugged, still frowning suspiciously, “Help yourself, but there’s nothing up there.” 

 

Sherlock turned and practically ran up the stairs without even replying. 

 

Lestrade turned to me, “What’s she playing at?”

 

I shrugged, “I expect she’s trying to solve the case, DI Lestrade.” 

 

Lestrade huffed and started after Sherlock, “It’s already solved!”

 

I followed them upstairs and we found Sherlock excitedly crawling about the floor with a measuring tape in one of the empty rooms. She jumped up when we entered and brushed at her trousers, “Ah, DI Lestrade. Your timing is impeccable. I’ve just realised I’m afraid our investigation is incomplete.” She pocketed the measuring tape.

 

Lestrade folded her arms, “Is it?”

 

“Yes, there’s a key witness we will want to interview,” Sherlock rocked on her heels, rubbing her hands together. 

 

Lestrade glanced at me, but I wasn’t in the position to give any hints, and I just shrugged. 

 

“Can you produce this key witness, Ms Holmes?” Lestrade asked.

 

Sherlock raised her right hand, “I promise to do my best. That’s all I can do, right, John?”

 

“Er. Yeah. Your best. Can I help?”

 

“You can! And so can you, DI Lestrade, if you don’t mind.” 

 

“What should we do?” I asked, while Lestrade looked grudging. 

 

“John, there’re a pile of old newspapers and an aluminium waste paper basket in the entryway we’ve just come from. If you could bring those up here. And DI Lestrade, if you could fetch the fire extinguisher I saw in the kitchen when I searched the house yesterday. Oh did you not see it? Never mind. Leave it to a layman to bring a little freshness of perspective to these things, mmm? The fire extinguisher is under the sink. And if you’d all like to meet me back here, quick as you can, we’ll see what we can do about this key witness. Oh and Lestrade, you may want to send up one of the PCs waiting around by the police tape. We will likely need an extra pair of hands. Thank you so much.” 

 

Within a couple of minutes, the lot of us were assembled with everything Sherlock had asked for, and she was prowling about, rubbing her hands together, bright-eyed and eager as she had been dejected earlier that morning. 

 

“Ah, excellent!” Sherlock took the newspapers and bin from me and made a loose heap of the paper in the bin. Then she took out her cigarette lighter from her pocket and lit the paper on fire. 

 

“Ms Holmes!” Lestrade objected. 

 

Sherlock put a finger to her lips and fanned the flames with a stack of newspaper she hadn’t burned. She turned to us and whispered, “On my count, we must all shout ‘fire!’ All right? Count of three. One, two, three FIRE!”

 

We all joined in with the cry of fire once, then again when Sherlock counted us into it a second time. Then to our collected shock, a hidden door in the wall popped open, and out rolled a rather greasy little man, coughing and cringing, and blinking against the sudden light. 

 

Sherlock leaned down, grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to his feet, “DI Lestrade, have you met Mr Jonas Oldacre?”

 

Lestrade went pale and then bright red, “Oh my god.” 

 

Sherlock beamed, “I think we’ve probably finished with that fire, if you don’t mind putting it out?” Lestrade blasted the fire with the extinguisher. 

 

Jonas Oldacre struggled against Sherlock’s grasp, but she held him tight, “Let me go! I’ve done nothing wrong; it was only a practical joke! What law is it breaking for a man to sit in his own house?”

 

“Nothing wrong?” Lestrade shouted. “You’ve had an innocent man in jail since you disappeared!” 

 

“Not that you acted alone in that,” Sherlock put in sweetly. “Still, that’s conspiracy and arson at the very least. Depending on where the bones in the fire came from. I suspect they were too damaged to allow for any DNA testing.” 

 

Lestrade looked at Sherlock, and I thought she’d shout at Sherlock too, but her expression was all admiration, “How’d you know he was in there?” 

 

“Well, I thought there was something funny about the house. The ground level doesn’t match this one. The dimensions are off. That’s the advantage of being a builder, eh Mr Oldacre?” Sherlock gave her prisoner a little shake. “You can make your own hideaway and sit there snug as you please til it’s safe for you to disappear properly. Oh, beg pardon.” Sherlock stepped back and let go of Oldacre when Lestrade reached in to cuff him. 

 

“Take him down to the car and entertain him,” Lestrade told her PCs. “I’ll be down in a bit to bring him in.” She turned back to Sherlock, “That was amazing.”

 

Sherlock pressed a hand to her chest, “You brought me my key piece of evidence, you know.”

 

Lestrade looked chuffed, “Did I?”

 

“The thumbmark! It wasn’t there yesterday. I checked. Very carefully. It wasn’t there yesterday.”

 

“Then how-”

 

“You remember when McFarlane told us about his visit to Oldacre? All those packets of papers bound up in wax that had to be resealed after they went through them? Well how might you reseal a packet of papers with wax? Warm it up and press your thumb to it. Oldacre must have had McFarlane do it while they were working together. I doubt Oldacre intended to make the use he did of McFarlane’s thumbprint, but he had all yesterday to sit in his hidey-hole brooding over his crime, and he couldn’t resist a bit of extra colour. Did you notice the plaster on his finger? You’ll find the blood really is his. Probably it was the lodger who actually made the mark, though.” Sherlock lowered her voice, “You won’t want to lose any time arresting Lexington, by the way. She was instrumental, as I hope you can see.” 

 

“Yes,” Lestrade nodded. “Instrumental, of course. We’ll bring her in straight away.” 

 

Sherlock bounced an eyebrow at me, “I suppose DI Lestrade, you’re in a position to continue without us? We have a few other things to attend to this morning. I can write down the salient points of the investigation, if you’ll need them for your report.”

 

Lestrade looked stormy for a moment, then tucked her hands contritely behind her back and lowered her head, “I suppose I deserved that.” Sherlock only smiled. “Well, we’ve got our man now, and that’s what matters.”

 

“ _ We _ certainly have,” Sherlock said with another meaning glance at me. “Bringing the appropriate person to justice is indeed all that matters. Make sure you have a proper look in that rat’s nest,” she indicated the little room Oldacre had fallen out of. “Likely you’ll find those missing deeds I mentioned earlier.” Lestrade began to take notes, already looking grudging again. “Look for the wax bit with McFarlane’s thumbprint and Oldacre’s blood in there also. I don’t envy you having to go in there; I can already smell it.”

 

Lestrade nodded, writing furiously, “Thanks. Can I give you a ring later on if. Erm,” she trailed off. 

 

“If you still need help putting it all together?”

 

“Well. Yeah.”

 

Sherlock smiled, “Of course. You still have my card?”

 

“Yeah.” Lestrade fiddled with her notepad then muttered as if she couldn’t help it, “I’m going to be a laughingstock. When this gets out. The supposed victim literally sitting in his own house the whole time.”

 

Sherlock bit her lip and glanced at me, seemingly weighing something in her mind, “Well. You might just. Alter your report a bit so that when you call me in the see the bloody thumbmark you’re more consulting and less. Erm.”

 

“Gloating,” I suggested helpfully. 

 

Sherlock bit her smile, “Thank you, John.”

 

Lestrade shook her head, “Why would you want me to do that?”

 

Sherlock shrugged, “It’s not about us, is it? Getting it right. It’s not about looking clever and heroic for the press. It’s about doing the right thing. Making sure people who do wrong get held responsible and innocent people are protected. Yeah?”

 

Lestrade nodded, “Yeah.”

 

“Maybe next time,” Sherlock continued a little sternly, “you’ll remember this moment and  _ listen _ to me. I’m a good detective.”

 

“Well I know you’re a good detective, but that doesn’t make me a crap detective!” Lestrade protested. 

 

“I didn’t say you were crap,” Sherlock said. “But you do not add imagination to your. Other admirable qualities. You can’t assume a thing definitely happened because it possibly could have happened. Especially when the way it could have happened is complete nonsense. And frankly, you have some prejudices to abandon before you’ll be able to be as effective as necessary.” 

 

“Prejudices to abandon! What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Sherlock raised her chin, “You know what it means.” 

 

Lestrade scowled, “I take exception to that! McFarlane was positively identified at the scene of the crime just before it occurred; prejudice had nothing to do with my thinking he was involved! I have public safety to concern myself with; I can’t just decide to take up the cause of every possible murderer who pinky promises he really isn’t one! I’ve been a copper for fifteen years; I know how to do it! I wasn’t asking you to be my tutor!”

 

Sherlock sighed, “I wasn’t offering to tutor you. My point was that my being able to see what you don’t see is an asset to you, if you’re not too proud to accept my help! You have institutional power and I have. Unique abilities. And we could really advance justice together, if you were interested in working together. You’ve just asked me to help you and then you insinuate I’m some sort of vigilante? How can you expect to have it both ways, with me stitching together your cases when they’re a bit squiffy but somehow not able to come to a legitimate conclusion if it’s not one you approve of? But I suppose my being right when you were wrong is no good reason for you to trust me, is it!”

 

Lestrade looked furious, “Maybe if you weren’t so condescending-”

 

“You know what, Sherlock,” I interrupted. “If we’ve finished our work here, we can go. We don’t have to stand here and argue.” 

 

“John, you’re absolutely right,” and she linked her arm through mine, and we went home.

 

…

 

Not sure if it’s day or night, as it’s grey and raining when I wake. John is in her pyjamas, reading in her chair and toasting her feet on the hearth when I descend into the sitting room with the Gob over my shoulder. 

 

She smiles at me as I enter, “Hello petal. How was your sleep?”

 

Go and sit on the arm of her chair for kisses, “Very unconscious John, thank you.” 

 

John slips an arm about my waist, “John-Hector came and delivered your cheque, ‘plus a bit extra’ he said.”

 

Wiggle in my seat and the Goblin digs into me in sharp alarm til I stroke her calm again, “Oh, he’s been released! Excellent!” 

 

“Mmmn, and he brought you flowers as well. They’re in the kitchen.”

 

Laugh and set the Goblin in John’s lap, “Flowers! I think that’s a first.” 

 

John hugs the Goblin to stop her leaping back onto me, “He said the flowers are from his mum. And didn’t Mrs Baer send you about a year’s supply of fancy jams after you helped her get her ferret back?”

 

“Ah yes, the jam bouquet,” kiss the top of John’s head, then get up and wander over to my music corner. “Might noodle about a bit, if you don’t mind the noise.”

 

“I don’t mind,” John says eagerly. She gets up and turns her back to the fire, cradling the Goblin in the crook of her arm. The Gob chirps, and John taps her nose playfully, “Shhh you’re off key.” 

 

Try and play the Gob’s scratchy little mew. Purring is easier. My violin buzzes against me so that I have to shut my eyes a moment. The Gob wriggles away from John to chase the trailing sash of my dressing gown, so dance about a bit to make it more entertaining for her. 

 

Glance up at John, and she’s shining such affection and admiration that I’ve got to lay my violin aside and come back to her. I’m not made of stone. 

 

John opens her arms to receive me and hugs and kisses me when I reach her. She’s kissed me hundreds of times, but some sorts of kisses still give me a warming in my chest. New love. Maybe it will always be like this. I suppose I’ll find out! Such a scrumptious idea that I squirm in John’s arms, and she hugs me tighter. 

 

“Do you know what?” John’s raises her chin to speak into my ear. Perhaps she’s on her toes as well unless it’s my imagination that we’re swaying ever so slightly. We should dance again. Will suggest it in a moment. 

 

“Tell me what, John.”

 

“You’re a hero. A proper one.”

 

Smile, “What? For playing with your kitten?”

 

John laughs and gives me a little pinch because we like it when she makes me squeak, “If anything, she’s  _ your  _ kitten, petal. Carried on like anything when I wouldn’t let her go upstairs and wake you.”

 

“Good thing you weakened. Gobby little thing.” 

 

“Yes, very aptly named.” John gives me a let’s get back on track kiss, “That isn’t what I meant, though.”

 

“No?”

 

“You save people.” 

 

Grin into John’s hair, “Do I?” 

 

“Of course you do. You saved John-Hector.” 

 

“I suppose I did. He shouldn’t’ve needed it, though. That wasn’t his fault.” 

 

John looks up at me, smiling but somehow solemn, “You saved me.” 

 

Bite my lip. That idea makes my eyes prick, “I.”

 

“You  _ did _ ,” John insists, squeezing my hand. “You called me back from the edge.” Very sobering. Hide my face against John, and she strokes my back in silence til I look up again. “You have a talent,” John continues low when I meet her eye. “For finding how to help people. I’m really grateful for that, Sherlock. The world is better because of you.” She kisses my hand and my eyes spill over. John rubs my back more firmly and continues in a whisper, “I was really worried for you before, petal. You seemed so. Disturbed.” 

 

I was disturbed. Feel rather ashamed, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you, John.”

 

“I know you didn’t, petal. But I wasn’t looking for an apology. It was a very disturbing situation; I don’t blame you.” John presses my hand and kisses it again, “I only thought maybe. You could do with some help?”

 

“You  _ do _ help me!” 

 

John laughs, “I know that! I help with cases and I make the tea-”

 

Sniffle, “Make the tea? That’s debatable.”

 

She laughs again, “Well, when we’ve got a case on anyway. But that isn’t the sort of help I mean.”

 

“No?”

 

“I thought maybe. You could use a bit of help coping.”

 

“Coping?”

 

John’s mouth is serious again but her eyes are so soft, “I think. Not sleeping or eating because you’re worried about a case. It’s really. Not sustainable, is it? I don’t want you using yourself up. You’re not just a bucket of water to pour yourself over criminals and put them out.” 

 

“It was only a few days, John. Less than that. A day and a bit.” 

 

John shakes her head, “But this is your work. Are you planning to stop solving?”

 

“Of course not.” 

 

“It’s a lot to take on, isn’t it? Helping people?” John strokes my back more firmly. “Feels a bit. Lonely sometimes. Doesn’t it? A bit scary?”

 

Think on that for a moment, “It was scarier before you, John.” 

 

John kisses me, “For me, too. But don’t you think. It might help. Give you a solider base. If you had.” She pauses, sighs, “Do you remember shortly after we met, you told me that my head was in a bad way, and I needed to see a professional and get better?”

 

Nod slowly, “Am I in a bad way?”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“Oh.” Feel sort of prickly with shame and want to peel away and go and sit on the sofa and perhaps hide my face. John’s hand on my back does still feel lovely, though. “I’m sorry.” 

 

“Don’t be sorry!” John’s eyes are bright. “Sorry, don’t mean to shout. I’m just. I don’t think I can help you be as well as you deserve. So maybe. A professional? Better to see to it before it gets. Unmanageable? Yeah?” 

 

“Okay.”

 

John kisses my cheek, “Are you cross with me?”

 

Shake my head, “Embarrassed.”

 

“Oh petal! You’re the most brilliantly brave and clever and selfless and talented person I’ve ever met. Truly. And I love you so much. I only want you to have a bit more support. You were suffering. I hate to see you suffer.”

 

Want to say something but am just sort of frozen and stupid. Clutch at John’s hand and lean against her, breathe in her creamy smell. 

 

She seems to understand, “Admire  _ and  _ care. Remember?”

 

“Wonky brain isn’t the same as flu, John.” 

 

John smiles, “Wonky brain befalls us all, petal! And we don’t have to struggle with it alone. That means being together, but it also means getting help from people who are trained to help with that sort of thing. Like I'm trained to help people with physical illnesses, and you’re trained to help people with. Insoluble problems. Okay?”

 

Nod, “Okay.” 

 

We fall silent again, John’s hands still tender on my back, still stroking my hand. 

 

“I want to show you something,” John says presently. “Come with me?”

 

We pull our coats on over our dressing gowns and John takes my hand and leads me downstairs. It’s still light out but only just. The street lamps have come on, and the orange light sets John aglow as we descend onto the pavement in front of our home.

 

In front of the house, behind the railing, there are patches of earth on either side of the stairs up to the front door. On one side, there’s a cherry tree, and there’d been another on the other side, but it had to be cut down years ago for reasons I forget. In the rain-softened earth, in the naked patch where a tree used to stand, I can see the prints of John’s wellies, trowel marks, and. 

 

Turn to John with a little hop of joy, “You planted the lilac!” 

 

She beams, “I planted it! I popped to the library and got some books on looking after lilacs--Pearl says hello by the way--and Hudson loaned me some gardening tools and said I might use that bit, as it was lonely. Lilac roots get cramped when you leave them in pots. It’s difficult to get them to flower. But here.” John leans up and kisses my cheek. 

 

“Here she can blossom. And grow.” 

 

John tucks her hand into mine, “Blossom and grow. Exactly. Here she can bloom.” 


End file.
